The sweet moans of life being birthed. The confusion settles in, as the sweet moans are not so sweet. The moans are the crying screams of thoughts, goals, and aspirations being crushed; one at a time. Life has a curious way of encroaching itself upon you, and upon your very consciousness. Life has a sense of humor only it understands. Ha fucking ha. Cyclical. The silent laughter of pain, torment, and rage. I have gone deaf from the silence.
Tag: vernalfirepress
A Funerial Heart
The cold warmth of a funerial heart. These are the times I can feel the disease within me; the disease within my mind. A diseased mind is a cure for life. A diseased mind and the living death, are truly the only cure for living within one’s life. How does one live in a world, where one is not recognized by it, yet they do not recognize the world? There is no day within the eternal night. The cessation within one’s own lifespan. Soft reverberations within one’s own rotting hand. The solitary warmth of one’s isolation, is the disease of ease. Too many attention seekers are seeking me. You must witness the nocturnal massacre, as you deeply breathe in their annoyances. Try not to choke on them.
There is a slight distinction within the hue, as neither you or I possess perfect eye sight. There is no vision, other than the type of vision one will allow to be bestowed upon them. Do you really think there is another type? No, there is not, as it was all a scam to begin with. I thought you knew all of this by now; I guess not.
Sinking Yourself Into Me
This is where we have always loved to play. Deep within your blackened mind. Those thoughts you are having right now at this very moment, they are not yours; they are mine. You can’t fool me, let alone yourself. You can say anything you like to me, but you and I will always know the truth. There is nothing you can hide from me. I see everything you try to live within. Those words, the clothing, that job, and that pathetic dripping life you so desperately keep clinging to, only weigh you down. Sinking yourself into me. I am a gluten for another’s punishment. I love to see the pain surface within another’s glossy eyeballs. Their eyes become so big; their lids are unable to keep them covered.
Deliberation of Persistence
Another morning. Eyes burning. In shock of what they are witnessing. Another morning. Within another lifetime. The differences are repeating themselves. A transition within a self-limiting existence. No threshold. Only a stranglehold of the consciousness. Back breaking endeavor. Split spine. The soul’s wasted time. A deliberation of persistence. Another aggression on repeat. Repeating itself. There is a distinction within the hue. Neither you nor I, knew it at the time. There is no such control, when it comes to the unknowable; other than the type of control one will allow to be bestowed upon them. Do you really think there is another type of control? No, there exists no such thing. It was all a scam. Life. Liberty. The pursuit of nothingness. I already thought you knew all of this by now, or at least you began to figure this out. I guess not.
Where Are You From?
Gretings!
Thank you for subscibing to my personal blog. My posts are primarily excerpts from past publications I have written, and future books I have not yet published. It still blows my mind that others from around the world are interested in what I write about! So, if by chance you read this post, please leave a comment about yourself, and which country you are from. Thank you so much, I truly appreciate it!
G.G. Kalfas
One Morning
I understand the phrase very personally. Death is with us from the moment we are brought into this world, to the moment it decides to take us with her to the other side. Being human is nothing but death on a daily basis. I have learned within my life, no one can make a difference; the difference makes you. You wake up one morning looking at the years of your life, which have escaped from you. You come to the realization that you are the only thing which has changed, or is different. When you see the world through the true eyes of neglect, only then can you experience the rawness from within the solitude of the nothing.
G.G. Kalfas 